


Of Dragon's Wild Call

by garbagechan



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Demigod Dovahkiin, Draconic/dragon-like Dovakhiin | Dragonborn, Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), Fantasy, Reluctant Dovahkiin | Dragonborn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 21:18:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17536466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garbagechan/pseuds/garbagechan
Summary: Aranwen is an unusual Bosmer. Like some, she has horns. Though rather than cosmetic or magically grown, they've been there since birth. Not antlers but spiraling, dark horns like that of a goats. Or a dragons, her mother was say, tipping up her chin to comfort her child's insecurity. And as she grows, there's still something quite different. A hunger within; a need she can't quite sate no matter how many successful hunts. So she travels. Exploring the realms - Introduced to many new game to chase, making the way up to Skyrim through Cyrodiil. But something is still missing. A desperate longing. And the closer she nears to Skyrim, the more Aranwen feels her many questions may be answered. That is, until... She's wrongfully arrested and sentenced to death.





	Of Dragon's Wild Call

**Author's Note:**

> I'll post a screenshot of Aranwen later. I've been playing Skyrim again and decided I needed to write Aran's origin. And while I do plan to ship her with someone, I'm not sure who yet.

 Fear and anger. The only emotions rampantly coursing throughout thrumming veins. The smell of pine masked by the heavy stench of blood and horses. Coming to Skyrim was a mistake… That much was evident. How she’d simply come in chase of a good hunt yet she’s being punished for simply being. Simply existing at the same time, being in the same place as the Stormcloaks, whose crimes she knows not but subconsciously loathes them for somehow wrapping her up in this mess. Even if it wasn’t truly their fault. And she loathed the Imperials now. Previous disinterest now blossoming into scathing hatred, heightened when she realizes their accompanied by the Thalmor. The very supremacists and sadists that pride themselves on the terror they reign upon her homeland. Impartial expression does well to mask the need to release the building bile, jaw clenching to avoid expelling a previous morning meal. How good of a morning it had been with the taste of a fresh kill and relatively fresh bread before a dimming fire. Now all jolly feeling and enthusiasm are gone, however. Now replaced with dread and fully dimmed with the understanding… She was going to die. For no reason. Other than the fact she was at the wrong place at the wrong time.

   When she’s asked of her name, she can’t answer. Lips sealed tightly together. He’s scouring the list, looking for any mention of Wood Elves. There is none and for a moment there’s a resurrection of hope when she reads the confusion then realization on his face.

   “Captain, she’s not on the list. What should we do?” His voice is soft for a Nord, laced with concern though he’s obviously does his very best to mask it. Glance cast in her direction, their gazes meet for a moment before his quickly roves over his list again, ensuring his statement is correct. But all hope is diminished with despair and an incredulous look given to the woman, the Captain, as she responds.

   “She goes to the block too.”

   “By your orders, Captain. I’m sorry; we’ll ensure your remains are returned to Valenwood.”

   Mouth agape and amber eyes wide, staring in disbelief towards him. As if returning her remains is going to do a damn thing for her mother who awaits her daughter’s return. What will she does with a headless, rotten body? Bosmer understood death and its cycle; the return back to the very hearth that gives and gives. But the sudden death of a child is never something a parent wants to experience. And certainly not one so unjust. Aranwen catches a sob in her throat. It’s dry; no tears to spill. A gasp of air. Taking in so much air as she’ll be breathing her last soon as her head is sliced cleanly from her body. The headsman stands imposingly before the group of men and women, his axe at the ready. Seemingly proud of the many acts of deceptive justice he will invoke. Teeth gnash into bottom lip as she joins the awaiting prisoners, hands tightly bound behind her back. The assumed General, with crimson armor decorated with inflections of gold, nags quite simply put. Confident monologue of his certainty of judicature; just talking, talking, talking until he’s instructed the priest to read their rights. What farce, Aranwen muses. What rights do they have? None…

   “As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the eight divines -”, but she’s interrupted, hands that were waving about stuttering.

   “For the love of Talos, shut up - And let’s get this over with.” A Nord, foolishly bracing death; welcoming it with bravery. Or is that just stupidity? Either way, he’s essentially offered himself as the first to kneel before the chomping block. His blood with be the first to soak the dirt beneath. She can’t look. The sound and smell will be enough to announce its completion. “My ancestors are smiling down on my, Imperials. Can you say the same?”  

   No other words are spoke. Just the clean resounding slice of metal biting into flesh. The putrid smell of flesh blood, metallic and tangy. She can almost taste it in the wind and it only furthers the need to vomit but, again, she’s managed to swallow it back down.

   “Next! The Woof Elf!”

   Her stomach clenches upon itself… Sinking lower and lower still. But it is no use in delaying the inevitable. Hope washed away with the realization that this was it. The end of a short life barely lived. Nothing to show for her travels; no time to write back to her mother to tell her how much she appreciated and loved all and everything she’s done to raise such a wild, fool-hearted child. Aranwen takes a step forward, just one, before a sound cuts through the small town. Echoing off the mountains and walls - Gurgling like some beast that surrounds from all sides. The quiet again, no hushed whispers. But seconds pass before motions resume, the General beckoning her to continue with a wave of his hand and gruff grunt. There is no kindness or sympathy in his gaze, simply disgust and annoyance. It still surprises her that people like him exist. Men disillusioned by war they’ve become unkind and, quite frankly, downright monstrous. Aranwen doesn’t protest. There’s no real reason or need. Either way, death will come to her even if she does resist. Gods, how her mother would scold her for such pessimism.

   The block is before head. The previous man’s head in the basket, flies already becoming acquainted with the exposed meat of his neck, fighting for the chance to lay their disgusting little eggs. To her knees, then leaning forward, looking away from the head just inches away. Keeping ambered glare trained on the axe that raises higher and higher. She can’t close her eyes, unable to look away from the bloodied axe as it readies descent.

   Something else catches her gaze, massive and black against the morning sun’s bright rays of light. The sound from before again reverberates but much, much louder. A beast it was. A supposedly long dead beast at that. Gasp tears from her lips and she’s scooting back, pushing away from the block and the man before her, ready to kill. Instead everyone follows her gaze and are robbed of the chance to react, the dragon landing upon the tower before, imposing and grim.

   “A dragon!” A stormcloak shouts, but all too late as the beast opens his mouth, sounds thundering from the orifice. It sends her sliding back further, the sound disorienting. For a moment, Aranwen nearly losing consciousness. The only sound now a faint ringing in her ears with the crescendo of muffled screams in the background. Someone’s got her arm and she’s pulled roughly from the ground and into someone’s arms. Carried like a newly wedded bride and into the weak safety of a nearby tower. Some honeymoon this is… As they enter, he sets her down gently, setting her against the cool stone as he addresses someone. One voice familiar, Ralof - The only kind Nord she’s met so far - and another, with a deeper timbre. Vision returns though still a bit fuzzy. Shaking her head in hopes of riding herself of the lasting disorientation, strands hair falling from leather tie. Finally, the ringing’s gone. Hand of her shoulder urges her to the stairs, the only other method of escape. Surely he didn’t plan to jump from its height…

   “Up the stairs, hurry. There’s no time.” Aranwen meets the eyes of Ralof’s proclaimed king, who’s expression remains unchanging. Just by the look, she already understands he has no love for her kind. That’s fair. She’s beginning to find Nords distasteful as well. On her heel she turns, hands still aggravatingly bound, ropes cutting into her flesh. Up the stairs she ascends, bare feet slapping against the stone. Not even halfway up and the dragon’s head bursts through the cobblestone as if it were cloth. The unfortunate man, who’s task was to clear the way, is killed instantly by falling rocks; his body crushed beneath the stones. She tries not to look, can’t really. Too busy avoiding being burned alive. Ralof’s hand pushes her skill, forward more he wants to go. Does he intend to enter the dragon’s damn mouth? But no, the dragon flies away, disinterested in the others within the little tower, giving them opportunity to exit. How nice of the dragon to do so... “Jump into the house. Be sure to roll. If you can.”

   What other choice does she have? So she does, leaping forward. Though she can’t roll, not with her hands bound. Why hasn’t someone helped her get these off already? The impact hurts, ankles and feet screaming. Aranwen falls to the splintered wood for a moment before scrambling back up again, pulling along by the Nord and down into the first story. Dutifully met by the Imperial before before. Ralof shields her from his gaze though he’s already seen her.

   “Traitor!” The Imperial shouts. It’s all he has time for, pushing a boy away and behind the safely of the only standing wooden walls of a demolished house. The dragon, again, makes himself known, landing in the only clearing. There’s an arrogance about him. A knowing that nothing they could do would be enough here to stop his slaughter. Aranwen feels that radiant from the flames he spits. There’s a voice under it all. Unknown to her but familiar. There’s no time to think about it. It’s probably the fear driving her to overthink the situation. Give the dragon humanity when it is just a beast.

To the skies he takes again, leaving them space to run again. Ralof doesn’t run as quickly as she does but he does well to keep up and shout directions through the burning buildings until they’ve met the keep. The Imperial and Ralod meet, their words short and she doesn’t care to listen, banging shoulder into the door to push it open.

   “Ralof!” She’s finally spoken and her throat hurts, ash in her mouth and the accompanying heat of the surrounding buildings does not help. But she’s caught his attention and he’s come back to her, pushing the door open and they both run inside.

   She should have just stayed in Valenwood.


End file.
